Entries from April 2017

This month's vocabulary roundup is a walk through a candy shop--pick and choose your favorite French words along the way! Relax and enjoy the sound file for a rainbow of French terms we learned this month. And if you enjoy this journal and find it helpful in any way, please take a moment to support it. Merci beaucoup!

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

If you have followed this blog a while, you've seen this photo a million times. Jean-Marc and I were both scared to death about an imminent "for life" decision! Soon after this picture was taken, we got some very good marriage advice from Jean-Marc's grandmother. Twenty-three years later, it is still one of the best tips for a healthy relationship I've come across -- even if we occasionally break the rule! (Mais bien sûr!)

I notice my husband is shaving this morning, something he rarely does anymore, now that he’s working from home as a wine sales rep.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"En tournée."

Prospecting? Where? I wonder.

"In Saint-Raphaël."

Saint-Raphaël? My mind fills with visions of the foamy sea, sandy beaches, sidewalk cafés and brasseries, the boardwalk, the boutiques, the marché, and the glamorous Belle Époque architecture.... Suddenly a pulsion comes over me. The pulsion to pout.

"I didn't know you were going out today...." I grumble.

"Well, do you want to come with me?" Jean-Marc offers.

"You know I can't come with you. I have work to do!” With a huff and a puff I leave the room.

I hurried to look up the word bouder just as soon as I returned from Grand-mère’s modest apartment in Lyon to Jean-Marc’s studio in Marseilles. I was hesitant to ask my husband-to-be what the word meant. What was it that was so terrible, so insufferable… something a husband or wife should never ever do? And why had Jean-Marc’s grandmother selected this bit of counsel above the rest?

"Germaine," as Jean-Marc’s mamie was called, was a stern woman who saw the collapse of a family fortune. In Morocco, after the war, she peddled house linens from her Estafette (a converted military supply vehicle) as there were six mouths to feed. When her husband, a prisoner of war, returned from la guerre, Germaine continued to "wear the pants," selling her linens porte-à-porte, while her husband went seaside to cast out horrific battle images along with his fishing line.

My first encounter with Germaine had me watching the once-authoritarian-now-frail woman eat the eyes right out of the fish on her plate! No sooner had I recovered from the fact that the French serve their seafood with its heads and tails intact, than I witnessed this unforgettable eye-popping scene!

Apart from Germaine’s advice not to sulk, she taught me where all those forks, knives, and cuillères belong on the French table, at once thoughtful about her bourgeois upbringing, and méprisante of it.

***

The French word bouder, it turns out, means “to pout”. From bouder comes the noun boudoir, which originally meant "a place in which to sulk". Though the dictionary says that a boudoir is "un petit salon de dame," it is really nothing more fancy or exciting than a pouting room.

I return to my sulking place, and continue to work and to sniff. Je boude, je boude!

"We'll leave in 10 minutes?" my husband suggests, popping his head in from the hall.

"I didn't say I was going with you!" I snap.

"Well, if you change your mind, I am leaving in 10 minutes."

I continue to faire la tête, or "be in the sulks," while my husband prepares for his surely glamorous tournée along the French Riviera. At my desk, I peck at the faded keyboard, staring into the dismal screen. I can’t concentrate on writing a story when I’m so busy obsessing about my husband’s freedom:

"Monsieur Espinasse goes to the sunny Riviera," I grumble. "Monsieur Espinasse would like the plat du jour. Would Monsieur fancy a glass of champagne with his foie gras?"

Despite my ridiculous imaginings and the cynical commentary that accompanies them, I know that reality is quite different. My husband’s door-to-door sales day will be spent lugging 18-kilo boxes of wine from one cave to another, navigating medieval roads, trying to find parking in a small French village full of one-way streets!

The glamorous day will continue as he stops for lunch at a grimy roadside gas station where he’ll pick up one of those preservative-rich sandwiches: un jambon beurre or un pan-bagnat. He’ll wash that down with a cup of bitter coffee before rushing to the next appointment. Finally he will weave in and out of traffic on the autoroute, struggling to get back to our village in time to pick up our son from basketball at the end of the day.

Meantime I will be working freely at my computer, trying to write the next great American story (or so my imagination would like to think!). To my left, there’ll be a café au lait, before me, the adventure of my choice, if I will but find the words to transport me there. Will I ever find the words? Oh, to be transported!

"Do you know what the word boudoir means?" I am out of breath, catching up to my husband, who is loading cases of wine into the trunk.

"Comment?" What's that? he asks.

"Boudoir. It's French," I reply.

"No. I don't know that word. What does it mean?" Jean-Marc asks, opening the car door for me.

“A sulking place,” I laugh. “It’s a place to bouder, or to be in the sulks.”

"Are you in the sulks?" Jean-Marc teases.

“Oh no, not me!” I glance out of the car window, to the heavens above. I hoped Germaine was watching. God rest her courageous, peddler’s soul.

I look over to the other peddler, seated beside me. Germaine would be proud of her grandson, who has, in his own way, followed in her steps.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Jean-Marc and I ran into a little pépin in our plan to surprise our daughter at her new boulot.... Cruising down la corniche, our eyes scanned the area for a parking place--anywhere pour stationner.

Not wanting to be late for our 1:45 reservation, Jean-Marc offered to drop me off near Le Jérome restaurant. I appreciated his gesture, but was sorry he wouldn't be there for the surprise, which was his idea in the first place.

I stopped short of the restaurant to observe our daughter in action. I did not like the way she had to cross the two-way road, each time she went to and from the restaurant (many restaurants along the sea are set up this way, with the servers having to take the risk of being hit by car throughout their service).

There were a few other things I didn't like either. For one, the top she was wearing. She needs to cover up! I thought, inching my way toward her, noticing other employees who were also wearing débardeurs (something between a camisole and a tank top). Well, it could be worse, she could be working atHooters. Which reminds me why we are in France (however ironic that sounds--given my husband probably just found parking beside a beach full of topless women).

Among other things, we are in France for the culture, including the culture of food. I was excited to see what was on the menu...and just how our daughter would handle the demands of a French clientele who would not necessarily leave un pourboire (in most restaurants, a service charge is already included in the bill. Waiters and waitresses are therefore not motivated by tips, but do appreciate them).

Jackie first caught sight of me when she was two steps into crossing the busy road, the platter in her hand now tottering. She paused and her face grew wide with a smile. I hurried up and hooked her out of the road. "Jackie! pay attention to all the cars."

"Mom! You came to see me!"

"Your dad wanted it to be a surprise. He's parking the car now...."

Soon Jean-Marc and I were settled in on the terrace, where my daughter's every move became a new source of concern, if only to me. The tray she held tottered with glasses of rosé, and when she set the tray down to store it after each use, it stuck out in the busy walkway. A waitress with a full platter would surely trip over it!

...And the table beside us, did she set the forks and knives straight enough? I fought the urge to go over and line up les couverts until I recognized my own anxieties. With that, I made myself sit back, relax, and watch my daughter practice the art of serving in a French restaurant...

Jean-Marc ordered le tartar de bar and I had a grilled daurade. Our daughter continued to fuss over us (would Papa like another glass of wine? Did I need ketchup for my fries? Was I getting too much sun? (for this she insisted on moving us to a formerly reserved table in the shade), all the while keeping her attention on the other diners. I noticed, in particular, how very sweet she was as she worked, how calm, assured and not-at-all stressed she appeared. She was not to be compared to me, to anyone in her family, or to an American or French waiter. She was her own person.

And while she may have only been a busgirl--what these days they call un runner-- it was clear (at least to me) she was Maître D.

FRENCH VOCABULARYIncrease your vocabulary with useful terms from our story

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Our daughter, Jackie, found a job as runner. The runner is a waiter who is in the learning phase, he stands in the wings of service, observes, learns and performs simple tasks that help the service. He will, for example, set and clear tables, go back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, or clean the floors between each service.

Students in France begin looking for summer jobs as early as March - and our daughter was no exception. So when April came around and she still hadn't secured a petit boulot de vacances, she pounded the pavement--handing out CVs up and down the coast between Bandol and Les Lecques. (If she could not pursue the job selling ice cream at the port of Cassis, it was because parking would be trop cher!)

Our 19-year-old was so relieved when she got the call from a restaurant in Bandol that she offered to work gratuitement.

"Jackie!" her father and I protested.

"I only offered to work for free the first day. I have no restaurant experience and I need to learn!" And with that, she cleared the table where we were eating lunch, out on our front porch. She was clearly motivated and had gone as far as to get training tips from her petit ami, who works tables in Sanary-sur-Mer. "Jeremy taught me to stack the plates like this..." Jackie said, balancing a tottering tray....

I was unsure about our cadette working in such a fast-paced environment. Jackie is very much like me--dans les nuages. I work at my own pace, do not like to be rushed, and tend to fade off, or rêvasser. Having said that, it is unfair to cast a blanket statement over one's child! Maybe she really isn't like me in that way at all?

Well, we would soon see for ourselves! On Monday, le Lundi de Pâques, Jean-Marc made a reservation at Le Jérome restaurant for Monsieur et Madame Blanc --a faux nom as our visit would be a surprise....

A peek at vocabulary from part two of our storycomme un marseillais = Like a native from Marseilles (bending the rules, not heeding the laws)

If you enjoy this free language journal and find it helpful in any way, help keep it going with a small donation. Merci beaucoup!

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

If today's story is frappadingue, be reassured that all returns to normal in the next post. And if this photo has nothing to do with the story--and the example sentence is a bit strange--I have no excuses, frappadingue or otherwise!

Didier is crazy about dancing. It's an all-consuming passion to the point that the farmer asked his wooers to do a few steps to prove they knew how to move their tushes, during speed dating.

A NOTE ABOUT THE FOLLOWING TEXT

Today's French word story was written using all the terms that readers sent in to this box. The paragraphs were composed according to the order in which the words were submitted. Thank you very much for your French word contributions, and for the chance to use them to write some fiction! Here now, is our final story....

"LOVE IS THE ROAD TO ETERNITY"

This is the story of Plume, a two-ton hippopotame who was starved of life's most basic need, touch (la caresse). Neighbors pointed the finger of blame at Plume's only surviving parent, Olivia who, they say, spent her days watching Les Parapluies de Cherbourg.

Plume and Olivia lived in Toiser, named after the judgemental inhabitants who have the habit of looking outsiders up and down. When the Toisers caught hold of the mother hippos movie addiction, they deemed it choquant and sent in a social worker who hauled Olivia away. They did not bother to send an Interchangeable (the government's term for "surrogate mama hippo"). Therefore Plume, alone and désabusé, clung to her only companion, a doudou (a little stuffed Hippo) named Ronronner whose snoring helped drown out, and so adoucir, Plume's fears. Olivia taught Plume that all fear came from the Loup-Garou. "Pay no attention to it!"Olivia cautioned her daughter. Focus on La Douceur--the force of softness, gentleness, and kindness.

The Hippos of Toiser knew not this Love. They grabbed for échantillions of it at the quincaillerie, only to discard Love at the déchetterie (called DODU as it was plump with the city's rejects). Olivia and her daughter, the Toisers suspected, had an endless source of this foreign substance which, they guessed, came from Eolienne Field--so the mayor had all 7000 wind turbines destroyed, going as far as to have a notaire to draw up a legal contract forbidding windmills anywhere in Toiser and, by extension, the Agape (The Universe).

"C'est époustouflant!" Olivia told Plume (mother and daughter kept in touch via DORLOTER, a service similar to SMS--more than text, loved ones could emit cuddles--miettes that sustained Plume, who had never been starved of affection (as the Toisers insinuated) and who, thanks to Mama Hippo Olivia, knew the true meaning of Agape: more than the "The Universe," Agape was Love incarnate...)

"Love is sweet as ananas," Olivia murmured via DORLOTER to Plume and her little stuffed hippo, Ronronner, as they drifted off to sleep each night...L'amour voyageLove has no griffes, no clawsLove is l'intuitionLove is not malheureuseLove knows not violenceLove looks over us, il nous surplombeLove warms us like a good pair of pantouflesLove refreshes us, like pamplemousses

Love is there when the sky darkens, au crépusculeIt's in a kinésintherapeute's hands, as he worksIt appears in the strangest places, inattenduIt is as nourishing as a truckload of cacahuoètesIt is the source of la paix

Hungry for love, some chase skirts (les coureurs de jupon...)Others overeat--one hundred aubergines!There are those who only ever flirter, or court loveStill others who are rendered crazy, folle in love's absense

But for those who want so much as to apercevoir LoveWho endeavor to see it from a panoramique viewpoint (un belvédère)For a bird's eye view with les oiseaux, putting all bonne chance on their side...

They need only remove the thin tulle covering their visionQuiet the lost monkeys--les ouistitis perdus--in their brainsTake a shovel to their hardened heart and let Love begin its enracinement....

"Jadis... Long ago..." Olivia whispered to Plume (for Ronronner, the littlest (stuffed) Hippo, had fallen asleep and was snoring softly), "when I met your father, mon coeur battait...." The Toisers accused me of mortal sin, l'Extase, said I was nothing but une coquine, and that I would be thrown into Le Machin-Chose where I would suffer until I reached le troisième age. That is how I ended up here, without electricity or l'eau courante. My cellmate, a jovial flâneuse, was arrested for growing roses called Cuisse de nymphe emue which she tossed into her yaourtière to make "Serrée" (a dessert that doubles as a thigh-thinner).

"Tombeaux! Tombeaux!" Ronronner shouted. Plume's little stuffed hippo was having a nightmare--evoqué by DORLOTER which sent out "mind slaps" (instead of cuddles) when it sensed non-conformist conversation.

"Mon Petit Chou," whispered Plume, "Mon petit ver de terre...hush..."

When Roni fell back to sleep, Olivia continued her story of life in prison: Le Robot patrols at night, when the corridors are lit by l'Etoile du Soir--the same star that's become, for Flâneuse and me, a great comforter, notre paraclet. And I am hopeful, once again, that I'll return home with you and Ronronner, to enjoy Les Parapluies de Cherbourg. Every time I see it, it reminds me of how I met your father, in the cinema's vestiaire! Your father can't remember the cloakroom, he says he was blinded by mes jambes! He called one Mouton and the other Bonbon! And I called him"L'Ecureuil...."

Plume and Olivia identified Roni's first two groggy sentences as government-issued mind slaps. But the rest was an unmistakable message from from Shalimar--The Sacrificial Vessel. Her warning: The Butins (flying hippos) had been deployed, sent to inject. This is how Olivia's love, the father of Plume, disappeared--following an injection! And now the Butins were heading for Olivia....

Shalimar sent out her gatherers, delicate winged creatures called Les Savoir-Faires. They would use their claws to gather the antidote to these injections. The ingredients could be found back at the DECHETERRIE. "Regarding all those échantillons the Toisers has tossed onto the trash heap," Shalimar explained, "Love can never be thrown away!"

Meantime, The Savoir-Faires were circling over DODU, the dump, scouting out the precious échantillons. Each had a name and each was a vital ingredient in Shalimar's powerful essence....

Pamplemoussier! One of the Savoir-Faire's cried as it honed in and plucked up the first échantillon. The reclaiming continued... Caoutchouc! cried another of the Savoir-Faire's, rooting it up beside some broken glass. And the gathering continued...Terroir! Les Indices! Chouette!

This potion--this antidote--was none other than Love in all its components, the mysterieux names of which the Savoir-Faires cried out upon retrieval of each tossed, forgotten échantillon:

Plume, Olivia, and Roni's eyes were wide watching the winged creatures fly over Shalimar, dropping into her mouth the échantillons which were englouti, gobbled up by The Sacred Vessel.

Ronronner giggled, "She's like a giant poubelle!"

"Roni!" Plume scolded.

"It's okay!" Olivia said. "Love is not easily offended!"

It was dusk, la crépuscule, when Shalimar was filled with the life-giving essence. Our dear Sacrificial Vessel was so full elle a zigzagué as she advanced down the path of Redemption, which was blood red for the color of the coquelicots that carpeted the way.

Dépassée by the time she reached L'Ecureuil, she could not hear his shout for joy: SAPERLIPOPETTE!!! FRAPPADINGUE!!!

Squirrel's enthousiasme ended when he caught sight of the sky. Tens of thousands of BUTINS were honing in on Shalimar! Their injections now dropping like darts over The Sacred Vessel!

As the darts struck her, Shalimar slowed, collapsing in the road of coquelicots. L'Ecureuil ran toward her and knelt beside her.

Love flowed out through every hole in Shalimar's vessel, as tears flowed from L'Ecureuil's eyes. "Love is nourriture, the Bread of Life," she whispered.

"Shalimar! Stay! How will I make it back to Olivia and Plume?"

"Listen closely," Shalimar said, her last breaths touching him like a caresse. "Yours is the story I am interested in. You are half way home."

"But...." L'Ecureuil looked down at Shalimar, his hands drenched in the essence which was now gone from her. He was astonished as the drops began to dry...and a magnificent plume appeared.

"Take it! The ink pouring through it is Love," Shalimar revealed. "Write your story with it and you will make it safely Home."

As L'Ecureuil walked on along the path of red poppies, the feather in his hand multiplied, as is Love's nature, carrying the great hippo up and over the land toward home. And what a view from below, where all could see and read the story of Love written across the sky. All but the Toisers, who were conquered by it.

THE ENDThis story is devoted to Mama Jules, who to this day wears Shalimar and still sports a plume in her hat.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

By the artist Cham (Count Amédée-Charles-Henry de Noé) (France, Paris, 1819-1879) — Image credit Lacma; artwork in the public domain

Good news: Our Mas des Brun rosé has made it to Los Angeles just before Easter! You can find it at Larchmont Village Wine, 223 N. Larchmont Blvd. Phone: 323 856 8699 -- Call to make sure they have some in stock before going, and please say "Hi" to Simon from me (Jean-Marc). He has always supported my wines. Thanks for your support as well.

The fury of wishing to conclude is one of the most disastrous and sterile manias that belong to mankind. Every religion and every philosophy has claimed to have God to itself, to measure the infinite and to know the recipe for happiness. What pride and what naught! I see, on the contrary, that the greatest geniuses and the greatest works have never concluded.

OUR STORY THAT NEEDS A NAME(Please submit one in the comments box after you've read part one. Enjoy!)

This is the story of Plume, a two-ton hippopotame who was starved of life's most basic need, touch (la caresse). Neighbors pointed the finger of blame at Plume's only surviving parent, Olivia who, they say, spent her days watching Les Parapluies de Cherbourg.

Plume and Olivia lived in Toiser, named after the judgemental inhabitants who have the habit of looking outsiders up and down. When the Toisers caught hold of the mother hippos movie addiction, they deemed it choquant and sent in a social worker who hauled Olivia away. They did not bother to send an Interchangeable (the government's term for "surrogate mama hippo"). Therefore Plume, alone and désabusé, clung to her only companion, a doudou (a little stuffed Hippo) named Ronronner whose snoring helped drown out, and so adoucir, Plume's fears. Olivia taught Plume that all fear came from the Loup-Garou. "Pay no attention to it!"Olivia cautioned her daughter. Focus on La Douceur--the force of softness, gentleness, and kindness.

The Hippos of Toiser knew not this Love. They grabbed for échantillions of it at the quincaillerie, only to discard Love at the déchetterie (called DODU as it was plump with the city's rejects). Olivia and her daughter, the Toisers suspected, had an endless source of this foreign substance which, they guessed, came from Eolienne Field--so the mayor had all 7000 wind turbines destroyed, going as far as to have a notaire to draw up a legal contract forbidding windmills anywhere in Toiser and, by extension, the Agape (The Universe).

"C'est époustouflant!" Olivia told Plume (mother and daughter kept in touch via DORLOTER, a service similar to SMS--more than text, loved ones could emit cuddles--miettes that sustained Plume, who had never been starved of affection (as the Toisers insinuated) and who, thanks to Mama Hippo Olivia, knew the true meaning of Agape: more than the "The Universe," Agape was Love incarnate...)

"Love is sweet as ananas," Olivia murmured via DORLOTER to Plume and her little stuffed hippo, Ronronner, as they drifted off to sleep each night...L'amour voyageLove has no griffes, no clawsLove is l'intuitionLove is not malheureuseLove knows not violenceLove looks over us, il nous surplombeLove warms us like a good pair of pantouflesLove refreshes us, like pamplemousses

Love is there when the sky darkens, au crépusculeIt's in a kinésintherapeute's hands, as he worksIt appears in the strangest places, inattenduIt is as nourishing as a truckload of cacahuoètesIt is the source of la paix

Hungry for love, some chase skirts (les coureurs de jupon...)Others overeat--one hundred aubergines!There are those who only ever flirter, or court loveStill others who are rendered crazy, folle in love's absense

But for those who want so much as to apercevoir LoveWho endeavor to see it from a panoramique viewpoint (un belvédère)For a bird's eye view with les oiseaux, putting all bonne chance on their side...

They need only remove the thin tulle covering their visionQuiet the lost monkeys--les ouistitis perdus--in their brainsTake a shovel to their hardened heart and let Love begin its enracinement....

"Jadis... Long ago..." Olivia whispered to Plume (for Ronronner, the littlest (stuffed) Hippo, had fallen asleep and was snoring softly), "when I met your father, mon coeur battait...." The Toisers accused me of mortal sin, l'Extase, said I was nothing but une coquine, and that I would be thrown into Le Machin-Chose where I would suffer until I reached le troisième age. That is how I ended up here, without electricity or l'eau courante. My cellmate, a jovial flâneuse, was arrested for growing roses called Cuisse de nymphe emue which she tossed into her yaourtière to make "Serrée" (a dessert that doubles as a thigh-thinner).

"Tombeaux! Tombeaux!" Ronronner shouted. Plume's little stuffed hippo was having a nightmare--evoqué by DORLOTER which sent out "mind slaps" (instead of cuddles) when it sensed non-conformist conversation.

"Mon Petit Chou," whispered Plume, "Mon petit ver de terre...hush..."

With Roni fell back to sleep, Olivia continued her story of life in prison: Le Robot patrols at night, when the corridors are lit by l'étoile du soir--the same star that's become, for Flâneuse and me, a great comforter, notre paraclet. And I am hopeful, once again, that I'll return home with you and Ronronner, to enjoy Les Parapluies de Cherbourg. Every time I see it, it reminds me of how I met your father, in the cinema's vestiaire! Your father can't remember the cloakroom, he says he was blinded by mes jambes! He called one Mouton and the other Bonbon! And I called him"L'Ecureuil."

PART II: L'IMPREVISIBLE (THE UNFORESEEABLE)

(to be continued...corrections, comments--and story title suggestions--welcome in the comments via the link at the end of post. You might also pose questions which could move the story forward. Merci beaucoup.)

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

"My torrid night with a Corsican fisherman" (photo of Elle magazine). It is time to stir things up on this blog. What better way than to write a sizzler! Ready? Your job is to submit a French word. My job is to weave a story with your terms (but not on your terms!).

On y va! Let's go! Scroll to the comments link at the end of this post and submit a French word. I will post our story in the next edition. Va-va-voom!

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Haberdashery is the set of items used for clothing and ornament: yarn, needles, buttons, ribbons, etc. By extension, haberdashery refers to the trade in these goods and the shop that sells them, progressively extending its range to weapons, knives, metals, jewelery, ornaments, furniture, leather, fabrics, etc.

I wish that stories would be consumed like chansons--enjoyed more than once. While this may be true of the classics (name a story you've read several times), blog posts don't seem to have the same appeal. Hélas, after an essay is written, it disappears forever into the archives.

Until Mom finds it! That is how the following histoire was resurrected (Mom hit the share button and voilà, my story had a second life on Facebook. Thanks, Mom!).

The second definition for mercerie is this: a kind of everything store (notice the balls, the tools inside the window, doormats for sale, etc...) picture of Chez Eugenie Bazar Mercerie taken in St. Tropez

Share this post with somebody. It might brighten their day. Merci beaucoup!

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

This is our 3rd Vocabulary Roundup for the new year. By now you should be speaking like sailors! Ohé Ohé matelot... let's navigate through all the terms we learned in March. First, take two minutes to relax and listen to Jean-Marc read the list of French words:

Thank you for reading. If you wish to support the time and effort that go into bringing you this free language service, your contributions, via this link, are greatly appreciated.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

The exclamations "purée" or "bug" are often (but not always I think) usable in place of the exclamation "f@#!" but are less crude. The fact that they begin with the same syllable makes me assume that these expressions may have been invented after the fact, in order to avoid swearing. (Google Translation)

Jean-Marc drove our 19-year-old, Jackie, to the clinic in La Ciotat. He checked her in and picked her up 6 hours later. I stayed home--but that does not make me une mère indigne. Non! Each parent uses their skills. Jean-Marc is best with French administrative work - whereas I do best near the home-front, making pots of homemade soupe à la tomate and double batches of purée de pommes de terre. Our daughter will need it--she's just had her dents de sagesse removed!

While Jackie was having her wisdom teeth cut out, I prepared a cozy place for her to recuperate. Our drab brown couch became brighter and more inviting with the following additions:

- un doudou - une robe de chambre - des marguerites - une boisson - lots of oreillers - A picture of her brother and her when they were little - her new green pouf (it's just a fuzzy key-chain, but she likes its softness!)

When Jackie arrived she was truly surprised. "Il y a même une cloche!" There's even a bell.

Yes, there was. And I hoped she would ring it non stop (still feeling guilty for not going to the hospital with her. Mère indigne!)

BON RETABLISSEMENT, Jackie. While waiting for you, everyone got a flower in her hair--even Fuzzy Green Keychain! Is a patient ever too old for a stuffed animal? Leave a comment below.

I made two of these ice packs with French cloth napkins (a gift for our marriage in '94) and ribbons. Inside there are frozen petit pois. Jackie's chin fit into the creux and the sides covered her swelling cheeks. The extra pack went in the congélo.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

BONJOUR. Je m'appelle Kristi. I write to you weekly from our home in France. Each post is created for maximum French learning. My stories and books are sprinkled with useful vocabulary and provide insights into real French life. Enjoy each quick, educational read--sign up here

Never miss a post

Sign Up Here*

Please enter all required fields

Correct invalid entries

*Next, check your inbox for the email I've just sent you and click the link inside it to activate your subscription. If you don't see the email, check all the usual places where lost mail ends up, including under the bed. Oh, là là!